


The Garden of the Lost

by Notfunctioningshipper



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Eventual Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Inspired by Poetry, Light Angst, M/M, Memory Loss, Mutual Pining, Open to Interpretation, Pining, Post-Canon, Temporary Amnesia, ish, let crowley say fuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-28
Updated: 2020-01-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:33:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22451164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Notfunctioningshipper/pseuds/Notfunctioningshipper
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley wake up on a deserted Island filled with familiarities, where their relationship will be tested. They'll have to address their feelings if they ever want to return to their normal lives. If they remember.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 37
Collections: Good Omens Big Bang 2019





	The Garden of the Lost

**Author's Note:**

> A big thanks to my artist Eli @someteainspace and my lovely beta Emma @tilted_words  
> Without you, this wouldn't exist.

It was sunny. It was quiet.

That was the first thing he noticed after waking up. Coarse sand was pricking his hands as he slowly pushed himself into a sitting position. It stuck to his collar while his shirt was clinging to his skin. Black spots were clouding his vision and his head was pounding. He blinked and tried to lift his leaden arms to rub his eyes. His neck cracked and a long groan escaped him. Then he jolted upright and groaned again at the pain that shot up his leg.

He must be dreaming, was the first thing he thought when he fully got to his senses. But the real physical pain he felt spoke against it. His legs were shaking beneath him; ready to give out again any second but he forced himself to stand upright. It couldn’t have been more than five minutes since he’d awoken; yet it seemed like hours. He’d never slept before, this he knew, but this was beyond a human body’s regular disorientation while waking, he was sure of it. 

Everything appeared surreal; the ocean in its entire beauty in front of him and the subdued sound of the crashing waves. The piles of junk scattered around everywhere, the sand beneath his feet, the sand still scratching inside of his collar.

“There is no way this is possible,” he muttered to himself.

His dry mouth and aching limbs could not be denied, though. The sun was shining with all its might and he might’ve even enjoyed the wonderful weather as such if it weren’t for the fact that in all his life he had never come to this place.

While trying to surpass the initial shock he frantically searched for a logical explanation but was only left with more questions.

_Where were the people... Why was he here? What had happened?_

He couldn’t find the answer to any of them. 

He tried to think about what he did before he woke up in this strange place and dread came over him. He… He didn’t know. As a matter of fact, he wasn’t sure if he knew anything at all. His hands trembled and he looked at his well-manicured nails shaking slightly.

For the first time since he woke up he felt scared.

“Who am I?”

The silence rang in his ears.

*

He looked around himself. He was definitely stranded on a beach, of that he was certain. It he seemed that he was alone at the moment. He’d realized a while ago that he did have some memories, but they seemed irrelevant to his current predicament, so he had decided a while ago to find out as much about his situation as he could, at least until he retrieved anything else that could help him out right now.

Yet he was dimly aware that it was unsurprisingly a fruitless endeavour, as his selective amnesia had apparently made itself at home in his head and the trash-covered, yet somehow not dirty (it was a paradox, really, as so many things were in this place) beach seemed so unlike any other beach he remembered. 

He knew about sloping sand dunes and picnic baskets and umbrellas, of kids screaming and couples kissing and the taste of salt that sneaked up on him during those happy moments where he could feel something warm and fuzzy and bright in his chest.

And there was something else, something he was missing, a silhouette of a person in his mind, golden eyes and sparkling wine of the same gorgeous colour during dinner but it could have as well been a scene cut out from a daily soap drama instead of his own memory because it was hazy at the edges and felt as surreal as the thought of rain on this bright day.

_Rain…?_

He continued walking. It was no use. There was a hole in his chest and he would read each sentence in every stranded book on this godforsaken beach three times to accumulate enough words to fill it.

The idea didn’t sound too bad, not worse than anything else he thought about. His hair was plastered to his forehead and he was drenched in his own sweat everywhere else too, so he removed his coat and opened the first few buttons of his shirt. Then he scoured the rubbish that had been washed up on the beach. Oh, how he hated pollution!

After walking down the endless dunes for ages and having to pause to catch his breath again, he finally found a light blue notebook stuck next to a broken bottle. Carefully he picked it up and sat down on the warm sand again. He used his jacket to protect his head from the burning sun and started to read.

_Dear Crowley..._

When the sun started to set and the brilliant colours reflected in the water he didn’t even notice the breathtakingly beautiful view. Instead saltwater joined saltwater and the lonely sea embraced the man’s aching tears and sighed as a witness in return.

Finally, when the sun set completely and he was unable to read any further, he continued to trek along the shore.

*

_Laughter. Two glasses, clinking against each other. Secret smiles. Their affection was tangible in the air, he could taste it in the wine and the other man’s cologne. A pang in his chest, the barber’s suggestion. Jealousy._

_They were happy. They were safe. And they were tiptoeing around a subject that had been following them for decades._

It was sunny. It was quiet. The red-haired man woke from his deep slumber. He tried to grasp for sunglasses that weren’t there. An old habit, but he didn’t know that yet. His hand found an old painting instead. He squinted at it. It was a picture by Da Vinci, of a wealthy looking aristocrat. He gave it a blank stare.

“To my beloved, for his beloved Aziraphale” the scripture read.

“Aziraphale," he spoke the name slowly, rolling it in his mouth like fine wine. It seemed precious.

“I like that.” He paused.

“Where the f-!“

*

He didn’t remember when he passed out, but waking up was just as uncomfortable as the day before. Pieces of wrapping paper stuck to his face. _I hope this wasn’t something disgusting,_ he thought to himself slightly miffed.

He turned his head and startled when he saw trees and other vegetation in the distance. He hadn’t realized how far he’d walked in his stupor the night before.

“What the-! Oi, you, are you real?” a distant cry pierced through the silence. Still dazed by his discovery he slowly turned around to the direction the distressed call was coming from.

“Hell!” the raspy voice shouted.

Of course he had noticed the lack of any signs of life. Now that he did hear the sound of another being he should’ve been relieved. Instead of that he was absolutely petrified. It was as if his heart stopped for a moment only to beat ten times faster than before. Eyeing the consistent piles of clutter around him, he searched for something he could use for protection. He thought to himself that pollution was quite practical right now. (Pollution would have added that they were always practical, it just depended on what cause one supported.)

He saw a white mug with angel wings as a handle and studied it curiously. He had the impression that it was familiar. He picked it up. Not very original, but it would have to do. He wasn’t the violent type of man, or maybe he was, he didn’t know, yet he was smart enugh to remark that his pulse was quickening by the second, and fear makes one do very stupid things.

“For someone’s sake, say something! Answer me!”

He could slowly see the figure running towards him, more gangly limbs than anything and almost tripping over his legs trying to reach him. He braced himself. Deep breaths.

Fiery red hair came to view- no, fire was hot and blazing and painful sometimes, but he didn’t seem so scorching. No, it was more similar to sunlight reflecting off a cup of English Breakfast; a soothing, brilliant warmth. He remembered the flavour of one of his favourite teas and wonders if the other man would taste the same. Then he blushes and frowns. The figure was wearing an outfit that looked like it was sucking up all the heat in its near vicinity. _Call me Mr. Fahrenheit_ rang through his ears and he wondered what it meant and why it made him feel giddy. No, he wasn’t excited he was _scared_. He had to be, everything else didn’t make sense.

He could hear the other man’s steps now, a soft thudding in the sand and he wondered where he came from and how he found him in the vastness of this beach.

Then he sensed it. A weird sensation, like a prickling up his spine, getting stronger the closer the dark figure came. He stepped back in shock, just as the weird figure slowly came to a halt in front of him. He was panting but there wasn’t a bead of sweat clinging to his forehead, and he seemed quite fit actually. He didn’t know why he was cataloguing all of this about the stranger but he did feel some sort of admiration. That truly could have been an Olympic sprint. Talking about the Olympics, he somehow figured he preferred the Romans to the Greeks. But why? Maybe he was a history professor.

He forced his panicked thoughts to come to a still and let his gaze wander over the man in front of him again. They were standing within a few steps from each other, both men breathing quietly, an awkwardness in the air akin to meeting a colleague from work whom you promised to pick up a shift for but then ditched multiple times, and he was unsure of what the next action was supposed to be. He wanted to touch the other man, to hug him close and say _I missed you._

That was absurd! He had to be touch-starved after being alone for so long. And yet, he had to keep himself from eyeing the man’s long hands and imagined holding them. He imagined how firm his handshake would be, wondered if perhaps they’d be sweaty and unpleasant to hold. He was shaken out of his reverie by the quiet huff of his vis-à-vis.

“So... what’s the cup for?” was the first thing he asked him.

“Just dare to do something and I... I’ll...” he heard himself involuntarily say, “I’ll never talk to you again!”

What sort of incoherent threat was that?

“Oh wow, now that’s an ultimatum” he other man snarled but he seemed just as confused by his words as he had been himself.

“Well this is certainly quite an unfriendly introduction,” he huffed now because he felt too embarrassed to actually admit he thought a teacup could be meant as a good weapon.

“Also, yes, I certainly am real," he added pointedly. 

“Right, right, just to start things off the right way, I’m not nice, remember that. Also you’re the one who just appeared without announcement, I was here first. And I was alone,” he said clipped.

“Very well, I would love to leave if anybody would at least care to explain why exactly I landed here? It’s been awfully confusing and also I can’t seem to remember anything that happened before I came here!” he said exasperatedly. That seemed to make his new adversary come to a stop and he eyed him owlishly. 

“Oh. Me neither.”

“What do you mean me neither, what is this, a shelter for amnesiacs?”

At that the red-haired man grimaced sourly.

“Can I get a wahoo? No reason to feel insulted, I was just stating facts.” He muttered something under his breath that sounded like a real insult this time. Then he cleared his throat.

“Well never mind that. This is the Island of the Lost. And right behind the curve there,” he pointed to the far end of the beach, “there is a garden.”

“That doesn’t make much sense, does it? Why is there a garden on a beach?”

“Nothing makes any sense here, Angel, you should get used to it.”

Did he just call him...Angel? Before he managed to mention the pet name, the red-haired man spoke again.

“So how does one normally check for memory loss?”

“Do I look like an expert on that sort of topic?”

“You sure do look scholarly.”

He blushed furiously at that. Was that supposed to be a compliment or another insult? He didn’t know. This man was infuriating and yet. He wanted to press close to him and push him away at the same time.

“What, snake got your tongue? Let’s start simple then. What’s your name?”

He thought long and hard. The other man seemed a bit skittish at that, like he was actually considering if he’d landed in some reality show about amnesiacs. Then finally a name came up to him, washed up from the depths of his mind. _Dear Crowley..._

“Crowley.”

The stranger gaped at him for a split second. Then he shook his head and grinned warily.

“The name’s Aziraphale.”

It was now his time to be breathless because something about the name Aziraphale... was familiar. All these familiarities just confirmed his suspicion that this stranger and him seemed to have history. It could have been his very own name.

“Pleased to meet you, Aziraphale. To be honest I like your name better than mine!” he tried to joke sheepishly.

The stranger, no, Aziraphale was his name, stared at him thoughtfully, before retaliating, “...Yeah. I wouldn’t have thought you a Crowley either.”

Again it was followed by an awkward pause. There were many awkward pauses in this conversation. Crowley didn’t like them at all. The conversation should have been flowing like the many bottles of wine at a good party. Everything about the current situation felt off. He felt as if he were watching his favourite movie but the actors were replaced by people he didn’t know. It made his skin crawl, like he was forgetting something important, something that had been dear to him. He hated that feeling. Which is why he said the first thing that came to his mind.

“So... Is there any food around here?”

*

Something about this white-haired fella didn’t suit Aziraphale at all. Just the weird hollow feeling, as if someone had punched all the air out of his lungs, that passed through him when he introduced himself as “Crowley” should have done it. He certainly felt the name would suit him more than this angelic looking man. Again, that weird pins and needles feeling in his nape, the moment he thought about the word angelic. Something about this situation irked him. It seemed... off.

Just when Aziraphale was about to reenter the seemingly misplaced Garden he found at the west side of the beach (he thought it was west, the sun went down there, but who could say that for sure?) after his routinely morning inspection of the beach, this stranger showed up, lying there in the sand like a dead body. He had honestly thought it was a hallucination with how the beach glowed around him, as if he was emitting some kind of glow, like a tiny sun in his chest. He didn’t like it. And yet, something in him felt strangely charmed by this other person, a kind of kinship he thought must come from being the only two people in an abandoned area full of trash that resembled things he’d find in an abandoned occult bookstore. There were some odd things too, like a throne and a sleek dark sofa, which seemed like any eccentric minimalists dream.

The chubby middle-aged man would not stop Aziraphale though.

He had a plan. It was a lone man’s world, every man for himself, and he swore that he’d not let an attractive stranger get in the way of that.

“I think he’s attractive?” he blurted and immediately made a sound akin to a trumpet player having a coughing fit during an orchestra.

“Oh dear, are you alright? What was that?” the apparently good-looking man named Crowley said and damn him, he really had been lonely hadn’t he? Why else would he be feeling this weird sensation, this _pull_ towards Crowley? The man was wearing tartan as if it was stylish. Something screamed 18th century about him. 18th century huh... There was some kind of memory trying to lodge itself free from his brain. Something that involved the Bastille and crêpes?

He had long realized that he wasn’t human, just one look into a puddle had been enough. Thankfully he’d found sunglasses to hide his snake eyes pretty quickly. He wouldn’t have wanted to scare off Crowley after all. That was why they were searching for something to eat in the first place weren’t they? Even though he knew he didn’t eat. Preferred to drink if he had to.

So he asked “Do you like crêpes?” without thinking about what kind of repercussions his actions would have. 

Crowley lit up at the mention. “Why yes... I think I do! How did you know?”

Aziraphale had to stop himself from choking again. He certainly wasn’t prepared to feel so proud at finding a topic the other man enjoyed. Damn it, what was happening? Was he always someone who was infatuated so quickly? Was he infatuated, though? It seemed to be bigger than that already. Something in him made it physically impossible to be rude to Crowley. He missed having company, he supposed.

“Nothing, just seemed to suit you, angel.”

Crowley halted in his step. He furrowed his brows. Aziraphale didn’t realize until he noticed the soft thuds next to him ceasing and he turned around. “Crowley, are you okay?”

“You said it again,” the man replied softly. Barely a whisper.

Oh fuck. He had called him “angel”. Not once, but twice.

“Umm... I don’t know why but it seemed... to fit you?”

“I see. I suppose it’s ineffable," Crowley stammered, still flustered.

Aziraphale looked at him strangely for a very long time. Then he sighed. “Sure seems that way, doesn’t it?”

They both glanced away, but not for long. Aziraphale sneaked a quick peek at the white-haired man and felt embarrassed when he noticed he was staring back.

  
  


“We should continue walking,” he muttered and started stalking towards the other end of the beach again, where he’d just come from.

“Why? What’s on that side?”

“None of your business,” he snapped, because he didn’t want to admit the truth. That he didn’t understand it yet.

Crowley looked at him confusedly. “Then why did you agree to search for food and say we should continue walking? We, as in both of us?”

Aziraphale groaned. Then he faced the other man again.

“I don’t know! It just… it just… it felt right.” And that was true, wasn’t it? Something about being together like this, just the two of them, was incomprehensibly right. As if the universe had aligned for them, as if it had been this way, always since the beginning of the world.

Not that he’d ever admit that, of course.

He was too cool to be such a sap about feelings. Was he? He couldn’t know for sure, but he thought he was. All this thinking and weighing his options were slowly but surely giving him a headache.

Then, as confidently as someone who believed tartan was a stylish colour, could speak, Crowley said:

“Aziraphale, listen, I’ve had the suspicion ever since I first saw you that we’ve met before. I think there’s a reason it’s only us two here together.”

His heart thundered in his chest. Now, that was a fast-paced accusation. Yet, he strangely felt it was true.

“I mean... It could be. I guess it would be easier to know why we’re here if we had any recollection of our past,” he yelled, slightly hysterically at the large potted plant next to him.

He hated the beach. He’d named it Island of the Lost because the rubbish seemed oddly specific, there were almost no aluminium cans or plastic bottles lying on the shore, but there was the odd glass bottle that had a wine label on it. Strangely enough, the first time he saw one, a warm coat of spice had coated his tongue, like a memory hugging him close. It reminded him of Rome but he certainly didn’t remember visiting the beautiful city. As he’d been the only person on it, he’d decided it was his Island to name. After all, he was lost as well, wasn’t he?

Crowley perked up next to him. “I do seem to remember some things though, but they seem rather unrelated to our current situation. For example, I just saw a lovely first edition by Oscar Wilde- _what did the sudden spark of hatred for the writer mean?_ – and I remembered my favourite quote from it. He started reciting and it was as if Aziraphale could see the words appear in the air:

_I never saw a man who looked_

_With such a wistful eye_

_Upon that little tent of blue_

_Which prisoners call the sky,_

_And at every drifting cloud that went_

_With sails of silver by._

“That’s oddly specific.”

Aziraphale felt strangely vulnerable. He hesitated before he added:

“Very unhelpful”. Then he started growling and continued walking West. He hated Wilde he was sure of it. It was almost something akin to a personal grudge. 

“Aziraphale! Would you stop walking so quickly, I really do not enjoy running. Please, dear boy, tell me what exactly are you aiming for?”

“There’s food in the Garden," he grumbled and picked up speed. Then, he actually felt quite bad and fell into a comfortable saunter next to Crowley.

“I don’t know how you do it, dear, but how do your hips not break when you walk like this? It seems terribly uncomfortable for our spine. Kind of snake-like if you ask me.”

Again. Another comment that spread in Aziraphale’s chest like a rash, or no, it was like an itch you couldn’t reach and he didn’t know what was causing it. Well he did know. It was Crowley of course. From his name to the crêpes to the snake comment. Everything about it seemed so familiar, so comfortable, so _himself_.

But he’d never seen Crowley before in his life. Not that he remembered it. Internally he knew, he wasn’t supposed to have amnesia, ever, but he supposed he was old enough to have it. So lost in his thoughts, he didn’t even notice when he walked headfirst into a tree.

He fell back and a strong pair of arms grabbed him beneath his armpits. He was hugged closely to a sturdy warm chest and the humiliation and the cut of choke that left him made him blush. He’d been alone for quite a while before Crowley had shown up. Apparently he might be slightly touch starved. He would acknowledge that problem later or maybe never.

Then, he fainted.

*

This Aziraphale, he thought to himself, was a weird fellow. Too jittery and agitated to befriend. He tried to stop him from walking into that tree but that odd bloke walked away so fast as if he had a stick up his arse and felt the need to relieve himself. He giggled at that analogy. Then he reigned it in again. To his great disdain, he noticed he quite enjoyed Aziraphale’s company and didn’t like the sudden quietness that had befallen the Island after the lanky man had knocked himself out.

There was something about him, a calmness in his chaos that just pulled him in. Even when he was upset, he seemed so sure of himself. He’d later describe it as if it was like Aziraphale was standing in the middle of a blazing hot fire but untouched by the flames. He didn’t know yet, how true that statement was, which is why he impatiently waited for the other man to wake up and sat next to him to pass the time.

It was bloody hot and he’d not stand around in the sun any longer than he had to, especially if there were some nice trees offering their shade in such a kind and inviting manner not far from them.

He stood again and pulled Aziraphale along, just to make himself comfortable for a long wait. What he did not yet know was for how long this particular fellow could sleep. He didn’t worry too much though, someone who’d wear that sort of daring outfit without shame must have a tough head. Good lord. He smiled to himself fondly and a bit sheepishly at the thoughts he was having about Aziraphale and shook his head. He pulled out the light blue notebook to distract himself. It had been a comfortable weight in his waist pocket, grounding him throughout the day. This time when he started reading, he managed to control his tears, but at what cost?

_Dear Crowley,_

_I wonder if you realize how much I miss you dear._

_Dear, Dearest, my love. All of these words I think about using to refer to you. Of course, you came to save me again. Just like you always do, just like you did in France._

_How do you find me, my burning sun, my shadowed moon, the eclipse of my life? You arrive only to disappear so soon, if it weren’t for the calendars saying otherwise, surely we’ve only known each other for minutes. Every hour spent with you is merely a second in the unending clock that is our time here on earth._

_How could you let so many years pass, since the last time we met? Decades which felt longer than centuries, without you by my side. Without you, appearing out of nowhere, a sudden delight in the bleakness of my life. I was lonely without you, Crowley._

Oh, to be as loved as the Crowley in those letters! Because they were letters, accumulated, slightly altered, a diary of unconfessed love. He eyed the man next to him, still unconscious as ever, but not _still_. He kept tossing and turning as the leaves shadowed his face.

Was it a pretty face? Maybe not, maybe it was too sharp and haggard and the cheekbones to high and the frown to embedded in his forehead but Crowley thought, to his shock, that Aziraphale was beautiful. He was unrelenting and it showed in his entire body but also right now, he was vulnerable and that showed too.

A few moments passed, while he sat on the cool sand, the silence loud in his ears, as he seemed to remember something. How he knew he’d never been witness to someone else’s vulnerability before and how precious this moment was. He was an intruder, openly viewing a stranger in a tender moment. His face was warming up from the inside when he realized how long he’d been staring at the red lock of hair that caressed the cheekbone of the other man.

“I should rest, this isn’t proper!” he said to no one and laid down. He forced himself to face a different direction and let his mind wander. Wander as far away as it could, while he tried to forget about the intimate thoughts he had read about the man named Crowley and tried not to compare those feelings to the ones he was starting to feel for Aziraphale…

_He woke up in a different place. He immediately sensed his… his adversary’s presence next to him. He knew with certainty that they were in Mesopotamia. They both watched the animals enter the Ark. He heard the demon say: “No, not the children!” and wanted to soothe him, to anguish with him, to talk about his fear of agreeing to the wrong thing, but before he could the scenery shifted._

_They were in Rome, in eating the infamous oysters. He wouldn’t admit it but he was taking in the way the demon was eating, as he’d never shared a meal with him before. He saw the way his throat bobbed as he gulped down an oyster, how he licked his lips and smacked them with relish, how it was dangerous to follow the thoughts the sight stirred in him and he’d only dare to at night, when he was alone and hadn’t seen the demon in decades._

_Just before he could reach out and do something he’d regret, the location changed again._

_This time, his adversary- no- his friend, was going on about how special unicorns had been and how devastated he’d been after they’d disappeared in his drunken stupor, because “Horses just aren’t the same, angel, unicorns were so much gentler and also, horses look stupid without the horn anyway, but it’s my own bloody fault, wasn’t it? I would’ve saved them if I’d known about the way species… well plant propagation is simpler, eh?” his demon smiled sadly and when had he decided that Crowley was his? Crowley…_

_  
_ _“Angel? Why are you looking at me like that?” Crowley asked, unaware of the emotional turmoil Aziraphale was experiencing. He suddenly realized this was a dream. The fog that had clouded his mind during his waking hours had lifted. He was Aziraphale, Principality of the Eastern Gate, better known on earth as A.Z Fell, proud owner of a bookshop in Soho, London the bookshop in which he was sitting right now. Sitting in front of a red-haired demon he’d missed so much, whose golden eyes were full of worry and… Oh. Of course._

_Aziraphale took a deep breath. The edges of his vision were starting to blur and he knew he was in the midst of waking up. He didn’t want to miss his chance. “Crowley,” he choked out, barely holding back a sob._

_“Go fast for me.”_

_“What? Aziraphale, wait!” the demon yelled panicked, as he was being pulled away by a strange force, an open question is his so vulnerable eyes. He’d missed them. He would miss them._

_Then, everything went dark again, as he surged forward for a kiss he didn’t get. It was enough. Knowing that he would’ve taken the chance was enough. He understood now, what he’d need to find out. He’d have to prove what he knew deep down in his heart to be the truth. Just as clearly as he knew that the moon controlled the tides and the plants bowed to the sun, that the stars were made by angels and demons danced on the head of a pin._

_Crowley. He was the answer._

*

“ANGEL NO!!”

He didn’t notice that they’d found themselves in an embrace but he did when he jerked away from him and the other man clawed himself free.

“What do you think you were doing?” Aziraphale choked out.

Crowley flushed and couldn’t look him in the eye. Then, he squinted at him.

“What did you dream of?”

The silence enveloped them both. It was dark, the clouds hid the moon, who was still whisper singing her lullaby. As she flashed her gentle light through the darkness,, there was recognition, if only for a split second, on both faces and a pained yearning.

He could feel the last grasps of his dream escaping him, but he was sure that they must have dreamt of the same thing. It had to be. Maybe together they could remember what had brought them here, because he knew beyond question he’d found an answer in the dream. He just couldn’t remember it right now.

Then, as soon as the memories came, they disappeared.

“Nothing.”

“I see.”

There wouldn’t be a confession n a long time, the same way there wouldn’t be another embrace. He felt a new wound open inside of him at that realization and gathered that in any other situation he would have curled up into a ball and cried.

Later that night, he did.

*

“Who do you think we were once?” Crowley wondered aloud the next day, a few hours after they had continued their journey, in a way to close the distance that had opened between them. If Aziraphale had noticed his puffy eyes, he made no sign of mentioning it. He was too absorbed in taking apart his own thoughts and going over the implications his dream had to have noticed how much his presence was being missed.

At hearing the question, Aziraphale laughed dryly and Crowley’s heart stung.

“What does it matter? We’re stuck on this fucking useless Island now anyway!”

“Language, dear boy, Crowley tutted, using the same tone so many scholarly older British men possess. “I thought, I might have been a history professor, he added as an afterthought mere to himself to fill the awful silence that was pouring salt on his wounds. 

  
  
  


“A librarian," Aziraphale blurted at that and cursed himself for it. It just seemed so fitting in that moment, especially after one considered the waistcoat and the tartan.

Bright blue eyes seeked out his own and seemed very pleased. Crowley hummed a little tune and sighed happily.

“Oh yes, I would quite like that, I think!” and Aziraphale was damned wasn’t he? He hated how his chest seemed to flutter every time he saw his companion smile (companion wasn’t the right word for it, was it?) and how he’d give in to each of his stupid games just to pass the time. They had to have been walking for hours now but the garden was far out of sight. It seemed to distance itself from them, because he was sure it hadn’t been this far away when he had found Crowley a day ago. Had it only been a day? Time stretched itself here.

No, there was only sand everywhere, sand and garbage and bitter, unfinished memories that were so graspable and just as far away as the place where he’d woken up in.

Just when he was about to propose a short break to rest, while he dreaded the quiet that would surround them the moment they sat down, Crowley perked up and excitedly pointed to a tree.

“Look, there seems to be a passage there!”

Huh. How strange. He was sure it had been much further the last time he’d looked up from his feet. Maybe his sunglasses were dirty.

“Well then, let me lead you to the garden,” he purred temptingly and grew a bit excited at the flush that crept up the other man’s ears. Maybe they hadn’t lost that spark he’d noticed from the beginning they’d met.

He walked down the little path he recognized from the last few days he’d spent exploring the garden. To any other person it would have seemed as if the lush leaves and bushes were making way for the redhead, almost fearfully quivering. Crowley noted that the rustling in the air sounded like warning whispers. It’s only the wind, he hoped, growing a little unsure again.

Maybe believing an absolute stranger to be of help had been a bad idea. He had been presumptuous, decided in his loneliness that just because there was someone else in this godforsaken place it meant he’d be trustworthy. He halted mid-step.

“Aziraphale,” he whispered meekly. When he continued walking, he raised his voice. “Aziraphale, stop! Stop!” he stammered, breathing quickly.

Aziraphale turned swiftly and raised an eyebrow. He took in the state of the other man and immediately rushed to his side.

“What’s up with you?” he blurted, confusedly checking if he’d somehow hurt himself, angrily hissing at the trees.

“I just, I don’t think it’s a good idea to go into the garden,” he averted his gaze from Aziraphale when he saw how close he was and how the disappointment shone through on his face, even though he was still wearing those stupid sunglasses. He yearned to see his eyes, but he’d never tell him that.

“What do you mean it’s not a good idea,” he deadpanned. Was he being serious? They were walking for hours to find some food and now this guy decided the garden was too dangerous or something?

“It’s just, you can’t know what’s in there or what’s hiding behind one of these trees and the beach might have a can of soup or something lying around? Perhaps?” the idea of canned soup also didn’t sound very good to him but somehow the garden was giving him an eerie vibe.

They had their first real argument then.

“You know what I think the problem is with you? You don’t want things to change!" Aziraphale growled and inched closer to him. Crowley tried to step back but there was a tree right behind him.

“Permanent things are safe -," he uttered, the bark pressing into his back.

“Bullshit! Permanence just makes everything turn stagnant. You need change to live! Imagine every author wrote the same story, how would humans have invented different genres, how would your special delicacies exist if not for change and curiosity? You have to get it into that thick head of yours that I can’t do this, I can’t just be happy resting here on this beach forever, we have to get moving to the Garden for fuck’s sake!”

They were pressed against each other now, and if Crowley would have wanted to, he’d see the glow of Aziraphale’s eyes through his glasses. Instead, he closed his own eyes, afraid of what he’d do if he’d listen to his heart.

He didn’t even notice the grip of Aziraphale’s hands tighten for a second around his shoulders until he let go of him.

“You’re scared of me, aren’t you.”

The hurt and the pain was threatening to swallow him whole. He hadn’t expected this sort of rejection. His body was threatening to burn him up from the inside and freeze him at the same time. His hands were shaking and he was blinking away the tears.

The darkness was creeping into the garden now, and a small voice in his head thought that that couldn’t be right. The other voices were too loud for him to care.

“Aziraphale…” he didn’t dare to say the truth. But he couldn’t bear his sadness.

“No. I’m not scared.”

They stood there for eternity it seemed, until the moonlight encased them both again.

Then they continued walking, until finally the garden in all its beauty stood in front of them.

A dozen of different trees. Each carrying delicious looking fruit encircled one large apple tree.

Somehow, despite his best effort to take it all in, Crowley’s eyes kept drifting to the apple tree.

“That’s the only apple tree here," Aziraphale whispered hoarsely.

“Why haven’t you eaten one?”

“It doesn’t feel right does it?”

“Doesn’t look ripe either," he remarked.

He was unaware of the inner turmoil wreaking havoc in Aziraphale. His head was about to implode from the sheer magnitude of all the emotions threatening to let loose inside of him. Anger, guilt, longing, fear, self-deprecation, but most of all something else. Something he wasn’t ready to name yet, so that it’d stay protected in his heart. But he had to, otherwise he might miss his chance.

He let his gaze linger on Crowley, stubborn, optimistic, knowledgeable Crowley, who could quote entire books of poetry and not notice that there was a man next to him, sauntering vaguely downwards for him.

_You do not have to be good,_ the moon seemed to whisper to him bemusedly _._

_You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves._

Aziraphale took a deep breath.

“You. I dreamt of you.”

*

He couldn’t believe he said that. How could he have told Crowley, beautiful, elegant, intelligent Crowley, his pale blond hair mussed up after sleeping next to him, sleeping next to _him_ , unfortunately embraced as lovers do, that he’d dreamt of him? All day he’d looked at his hair. Didn’t have the guts to look anywhere else. Because unknown to him, they hadn’t dreamt the same dream.

_There was fire and smoke, books turning to ashes and it reminded him of a church but it wasn’t a church this time and they weren’t safe this time, he was alone and he’d lost his... best friend. He’d lost his best friend and he didn’t know how he’d face one more minute in a world without him. He saw an eternity stretch out in front of him and wanted nothing more than to sink into the earth, tell it to swallow him whole, to cocoon him in her warmth and never wake him up again._

_He’d refuse the sun and the stars, reject Earth and all its pleasures, if they even tried to offer him a world without him. A world without Aziraphale wasn’t one Crowley wanted to live in. To tell the truth, in a world without Aziraphale, Crowley would not be able to live in. Not anymore. Not ever. Not since... since... not since the last time._

But he couldn’t tell that to Aziraphale. Aziraphale. _Aziraphale._

Oh. Now it made sense. Why he couldn’t shake the feeling of their names sounding wrong. A surge of energy came to him, a steady buzz of his power reigniting in his core.

I’m Anthony J. Crowley, he thought, and his face showed all signs of wonder and surprise and confusion. He’d woken up an eternity ago on an island with a name on the tip of his tongue. He’d assumed it was his. Aziraphale.

And then he’d met him, the angel of his dreams. And the angel had seen him and introduced himself as Crowley.

Could it be? Did he remember as well?

What was the implication that they’d both lost their memories of everything but not the other’s name? What did it mean, that the only thing he knew with certainty was the name of his adversary, of his work colleague, biblical rival, of his truest friend.

He was in love with Aziraphale.

A million different images flooded his mind, Kairo, Istanbul, Singapore, Rio, Manchester, Kyoto, Calcutta, Bern, Miami, Sydney, Java, Tuscany, Madrid, Columbia, Mulhouse; it was always Aziraphale and him, drinking, eating, laughing, and he sensed something in him awaken that he thought he’d lost forever.

And Aziraphale was looking at him with the expression of someone who didn’t understand why the sun rises in the East and not in the West, and it broke Crowley to see that after everything, there was a blankness to his stare, an emptiness where the sparkle used to be in his eyes that were reserved for Crowley, the _oh you’re here so am I._

Aziraphale didn’t recognize him. But he’d move heaven and hell and he’d stop time and destroy this Island if it meant to bring back the angel he loved. He just had to figure out what this place was.

Suddenly the blood in his veins turned to ice and the hairs on his nape stood on end, as he found an answer.

They weren’t in heaven or in hell. They weren’t on Earth. The reason Crowley knew was because he couldn’t sense Time anymore. Because how could you stop something that didn’t exist? They were trapped in a loop somewhere, somewhere far far away from home. For the first time since the Apocalypse, Crowley was afraid.

Right in that moment one of the most beautiful apples in the garden turned fully ripe. It’s brilliant shade of red glinted and gleamed dangerously in the moonlight. It would have made anyone turn their head towards it.

It would have whispered “pick me," if it could have.

The one next to it would grow ripe just a moment later and they’d rival each other in their beauty.

What Crowley didn’t know was that this was the first warning. There was a clock somewhere in existence he didn’t know about and it had started ticking now. He just didn’t know how long they still had.

That’s the problem with time. It goes unnoticed, when it wants to. When it’s commanded to at least.

Except the apples noticed.

They knew.

They were waiting.

*

He had left the garden and spent the day brooding over everything. Of course, if anyone had asked, he would’ve claimed that he was thinking of a plan, but to be quite honest, he was replaying all the memories he had of the angel and him. Considering there were so many, even after hours, he’d just reached a certain scene at the Globe Theatre when said angel appeared, unchanged as ever.

“Aziraphale?” the angel called him with a cautious tone in his voice. Oh, how he hated how wrong it sounded.

“I apologize for the verbal disagreement we had before," he added and ‘verbal disagreement’ was such a Aziraphale way of putting things, wasn’t it? He almost missed the next few words leaving his mouth.

“I was just afraid of finding something I wasn’t ready to see yet.”

“Don’t worry about it,'' he unclenched his teeth and dropped his shoulders with a huff. The resignation was threatening to overwhelm him. He didn’t care anymore. All he wanted was for them to go back to their old ways, figuring out their life post Armageddon, without Heaven or Hell breathing down their necks. But apparently they weren’t done yet.

“Let’s rest," he decided then, and would you look at that, the day was already yielding to the night. Not only was time passing here, but it was off-putting for him how he could not understand how.

“Oh golly, you’re right, how fast this day ended,” Aziraphale chuckled a little confusedly, still unaware of the rules of the island.

“There," Crowley mumbled and handed him a pillow he’d found earlier. Maybe he had looked for it specifically, but he wouldn’t admit that to anyone. He’d recognized all the junk from the beach being their personal belongings. The pillow with a black satin cover was definitely from his current apartment and he frowned at the thought of sand ruining the soft texture Aziraphale would hopefully lay his head on. It was better than nothing, after all.

“Oh, how kind of you," the angel barely managed to choke out, the whirring emotions in his chest threatening to overwhelm him so much, he’d do something stupid, like kiss this man.

Because he had realized after their fight (because it had been a fight), he did have budding feelings for the brash and yet soft, red-haired fellow.

The thought of never having the opportunity to see his gentle smile he always tried to cover up with a grimace, or to never hold him in his arms again (even if it was an accident the first time it happened), sent a painful pang of longing through his chest.

He wanted to be close to him, to discuss things and bounce of his ideas, or to just feel his soothing presence. With Aziraphale, he felt truly seen and understood. Even though right now, he seemed quite lost in his thoughts and completely unaware of his romantic feelings for him. No, he seemed sad. How he hated to see such a gorgeous face in pain.

Da Vinci had given Mona Lisa a smile that was inscrutable to the world but he was sure if he had known Aziraphale, the painter would’ve been unable of capturing the fiery essence of the man.

“Aziraphale," he said hoarsely, until he noticed the object of his desires was sleeping. He was slightly disappointed. A sigh escaped him and then another one, but this time one of pleasure as he rested his head on the soft pillow. Wonderful!

He thought about the day they’d had. Then he spoke, more to himself than the other man.

“I don’t think we’re lost causes you know. Especially you. You’re better than me. If anyone should be saved, it’s you.”

He was unaware that the other man in the meantime had not been sleeping and heard the little epiphany he’d had.

Crowley hadn’t ever considered himself worthy of salvation in the past six thousand years.

He didn’t see how someone as good as Aziraphale would believe him to be better. He thought, perhaps this was the foundation of love. Believing the other was always the better one. For the first time since the beginning, since he met the pale-haired angel in Eden, Crowley allowed himself to hope.

*

He didn’t know why they ended up in the garden again. Well, actually, he did. It was to find food, but every fruit apart from the apples were rotten. Aziraphale was still searching for something to eat like a mad man and he could begin to feel himself lose his cool. His usually manicured nails were digging into his palms now.

“Why are you doing nice things for me!” he shouted, more frustrated at himself and his inability to believe that maybe the feelings he had for Aziraphale were being requited. The little acts of kindness he kept doing for him, perhaps they meant something more. Just the other day they’d found an unbroken bottle of wine at the beach and shared the wonderful bottle under the brilliant night sky and a fond smile overtook his lips as he thought about the wild rambles he’d listened to.

“I can’t believe you’re so smart and still so stupid!," the other man yelled and took off his sunglasses for the first time since they met.

It was such a casual gesture and suddenly a thousand memories of the demon doing the exact same thing flashed in front of Aziraphale’s eyes and… Oh. Those golden eyes, filled with so much hurt. How he’d missed them. 

“It’s because- You know what, forget it just like you’ve forgotten everything else!" he hissed and oh dear, he’d left him waiting for long enough, hadn’t he?

“Crowley," he whispered and felt the heavy weight of his notebook in his pocket. Some day, he’d have to show the demon those letters. He owed it to him.

At the mention of his real name, Crowley jerked his head upright and gaped at the angel.

“Aziraphale?” he whispered back, just as terrified as he felt.

Slowly he raised his trembling hands and cupped the demons cheeks.

If Crowley hadn’t already known God existed for the entirety of his life, the sight of recognition flashing in Aziraphale’s eyes after so long, would’ve made him believe in a higher power. Otherwise there wouldn’t have been a possibility of something so ethereal existing.

He tried to hold back a sob but he couldn’t. The flood gates reopened just as they had when Noah built his Ark and he lunged at the angel, wrapping all the hard angles of his body around the other’s soft and gentle curves. He buried his hands in pale cotton hair and his nose in the crook of his neck and deeply inhaled the faint smell of cologne he was so familiar with.

He’d allow himself only this moment of indulgence. After everything, after the world almost ended and then his world almost ending again, wasn’t he deserving of one moment of weakness?

What he hadn’t expected was Aziraphale holding him back, just as desperately as he was.

If one would ever hear an angel sobbing, it is believed that mortals would tear out their own heart to escape the sorrow that sound caused them. The island was shaking with reverence for the two immortal foes who had turned to lovers so long ago.

And the apples were waiting.

*

“What do you think will happen when we eat them?” Aziraphale looked at him worriedly. His anxiousness was almost contagious.

But for the first time in his eternal life, Crowley felt settled. There were no more questions for him to search the answer for. The beast in his heart that was always on the run had quieted into something akin to a regular heartbeat. He had found the answer he’d always wanted. 

“I don’t know. Let’s find out," he grinned just as he had so many millennia ago in front of Eve, and his golden eyes flashed in the sunlight. There was only one difference compared to then.

They took a bite at the same time.

*

_You are, and always have been, the love of my existence, Crowley. I hope one day I shall build up the courage to tell you in person._

_We met in the garden, where the humans lost everything. But to be honest, I think Eden wasn’t the Garden of the Lost, as some angels later called it. Humanity found more than they lost, I think._

_And I found you._

_Forever yours,_

_Aziraphale_

  
  
  
  



End file.
